Jack Be Nimble
by Rabbit
Summary: ::not finished::The story of how good ol' Jack Kelly came to be (yes the summary is.... lame... but please, read! I like this one... hahah, for now, anyway)
1. Sneak Me Out Gov'nor

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Chapter 1: _Sneak me out, Gov'nor_

Francis Sullivan stared up at the sky through the bars of the window in his cell at the Refuge. Stars were beginning to poke through the dusky blue expanse overhead as night approached. The stars were so vivid and so close that evening that he felt he could pluck one from the sky. He smiled a little, for the first time in days, at the thought, and he felt a strange sense of peace. At that moment, to ruin the serenity of it all, Snyder, the warden he held a bitter grudge against, strolled by, talking, laughing, having quite a pleasant time with the mayor. With a sneer, he pushed away from the window and paced back towards the hard cot in the corner. Sighing restlessly, he dropped onto the bed and crammed his hands through his tangled hair. '_I swears, I's gonna get out an' Snyder will be _so_ sorry…_'

Footsteps and the clanking of keys could be heard down the hall. Francis rose to his feet and approached the door.

"Eager to get out, eh Sullivan?" taunted the guard, stopping before the boy's cell.

"Jus' shut up an' open the door."

He gave a nasally chuckle, shaking the keys enticingly just out of Francis' reach. "You's forgettin' who's got the power, kid." And then he walked away, like he always did when the boy copped an attitude, to let the others out first.

Francis growled and slammed his palms against the bars in frustration. Angrily, he paced back and forth in front of the door, waiting for the guard to return. When the man finally did, he harassed the boy a while longer before finally letting him out. Furious, he stalked out of his cell, muttering a bitter damnation or two about him and his family, and only the fact that the guard was safely stationed behind the open door stopped him from connecting his fist to the man's face.

He stormed down the dark, rank hall, following the voices of the other boys who were in this juvenile prison, all on their way to dinner and a half-hour of recreation. He was herded into line for food, hastily yanked a tray from the stack on his right, and held it out for the cook to slap on to it the mush they incorrectly labeled food. Turning, he silently trudged to an empty table, slammed his tray down, and parked himself in a chair, shoveling the pasty meal down his throat and into his starving body as if the meal would be his last. It certainly would for a few days, he reckoned, as he tended to infuriate Snyder to the point of breaking more often than not, and punishment often included a day or two without eating.

"Hey, mind if I sit here?"

Francis looked up momentarily, to see a blond-haired boy sporting an eye patch pointing to the chair across from him. He shrugged, and motioned, rather uninvitingly, for him to sit. The subtlety flew right past the boy, and he sat and extended his hand pleasantly. Francis stared at it, but made no move to offer his own hand.

"I's James, but ever'one calls me Kid Blink. Blink for short."

"That's nice" was the bitter one's reply, without bothering with introductions.

Pursing his lips, Kid Blink pulled his hand back, and forked up a mouthful of the flavorless gruel on his plate. "You's that kid ever'one talks about, ain'cha? The one who gots Warden Snyder down his neck all the time? What's he got against ya?"

"Don't know, don't care. For all it's worth, Snyder can just go shove it up his-"

"Whatcha in for?" he asked quickly, sparing his ears from the harsh language he knew the other boy would spout.

Francis rolled his eyes. Apparently, this boy wasn't going to leave him alone unless he talked. "Stealin'," he replied simply. After a long pause, he grudgingly asked, "An' you?"

"Fightin'. It wasn't my fault, but try to tell the bulls that. I's just defendin' myself." He shrugged. "But they's lettin' me out in a couple of days. What about you?"

"I's gettin' out soon too," he replied cryptically.

After several minutes of silence, he looked at Francis and asked, "Hey, ya wanna join a card game? Me an' a couple of other fella's are gonna play some poker."

With a disinterested shrug, he agreed. Kid Blink grinned. "They's a great buncha guys. This fella, name's Racetrack, is playin' too… Biggest gambler ya ever seen. That's what he's in for, gamblin'. Funny as can be, though. He can tell a real humdinger of a story."

Francis suppressed an irritated sigh, tuning out on the boy's incessant rambling, as he ripped a piece of his biscuit off with his teeth and gnawed on the bit for a while. With dinner finally over, he stood, returned his tray to the cook, and followed the chipper Kid Blink to the recreation room.

"Heya Racetrack!" he called out towards the card table where six or seven other boys were seated. A black haired boy in the group looked up and grinned toothily.

"Blink, me boy! Who ya got there?" he asked curiously, rapidly shuffling the deck of cards between his hands.

"Gots another player!" He slapped Francis on the shoulder and motioned for him to sit down.

Racetrack grinned again. "Heya buddy. I's Race, the greatest gambler there is! Prepare to lose ya money, fellas!" he crowed, dealing out the cards.

Francis rolled his eyes, grabbing his cards and fanning them out before his eyes. He let his face go passive as he studied the hand. Nothing special. Inwardly, he sighed. It was then that he realized he was being talked to.

"Hey… Finally, got ya attention…" Race grinned. "So, whatcha name?"

His reply was a silent, steely expression.

He held up his hands defensively. "Jus' askin'. Don't hafta tell me nothin'. Nobody tells me nothin' anyway." The other card players laughed at that, as he grinned, and it was apparent that the comment was a sort of inside joke.

After peering at Francis for a second, another gambler, who had introduced himself as Danny, commented, "Hey, 'e looks like a cowboy, don'cha think? Whad'ya think? We call ya Cowboy?"

He shrugged. "Whatever."

The game began. It was kept light: jokes tossed back and forth, relentless teasing when the self-proclaimed greatest gambler lost to Kid Blink, tons of laughs and even a bit of gossip, though none would ever admit to it. Even Francis, though reluctant to admit it, was enjoying himself.

"Hey, boys, didja hear that the gov'nor's comin' for a visit t'morrow night?" Race inquired on their second round of the poker game, with a pen dangling out of the corner of his mouth. He tossed a couple of spare coins into the jackpot pile.

"Our good friend Teddy Roosevelt himself, eh?" Danny cracked, raising the stakes with his own coins. The boys laughed at that.

"Yeah," he continued, "well, I heard ol' man Snyder talkin' 'bout it wit' the mayor. S'posed to be a big deal. I'll betcha a quarter we's gonna get a 'behave or we's gonna soak ya' lecture."

Kid Blink laughed. "Can't stop bettin', even now, can ya?"

He shrugged amiably. "Hey, it's somethin' t' do, eh?"

Francis listened to them silently and after some persistent thought on the subject, his brain began formulating an idea. It was crazy. It was dangerous. It was exactly what he needed to do.

A few minutes later, the guards came in to round up the boys and roughly herd them back to their cells.

"Hey, Cowboy, we'll do this again, t'morrow night!" Kid Blink shouted over his shoulder as he departed.

Francis just smirked, and ambled back to his cell.

* * *

Whistling softly to himself, Francis thumbed the pilfered file in his pocket as he stared out the window once again. He knew he would have to thank Swipes one day for it. Gone was the forlorn, dull expression in his eyes, instead, replaced by a gleam of hope. He was in such a light mood, that even Snyder was baffled by his good behavior, and very little ever baffled the Warden.

Leaving one ear tuned for footsteps down the hall, he pulled the file from his pocket and began to work on the screws holding the window in. Dusk was approaching quickly, and it wouldn't be long before Governor Roosevelt arrived. He stopped whistling as his concentration delved into the work of removing the screws. Out came one, and then another. His eyes flickered towards the entrance and, with bitter swearing under his breath, he hastily pried another screw loose as the governor's carriage rattled through the gates. There was no telling how long the politician would remain at the Refuge.

The familiar sound of approaching footsteps and rattling keys reached his ears. It was time to eat, his growling stomach told him. Leaping onto his hard cot, he threw his blanket up over his shoulders and closed his eyes, feigning sleep.

"Hey Sullivan, ya in there?" the guard yelled. "Wake up, rat, it's time to eat!" He hollered a few more insulting phrases that Francis was barely able to refrain from lashing out at, before finally assuming the boy was sleeping hard and moving on.

Taking deep, calming breaths, he stayed in bed a few minutes longer, before finally jumping to his feet and rushing to the window again. He breathed a sigh of relief to see the governor's carriage still in place. Quickly, he coaxed the remaining screws from the wall, and quietly pulled the frame of bars from the wall. He pulled his bed over to the wall, climbed onto it, and hoisted himself through the window, first one leg, then the other, and finally the rest of his body, as he pulled the window back in place.

The frigid air hit him like a shock, and his heart pounded violently in his chest, so loud that he was almost certain that one of the guards would hear. He stiffened and pressed himself further against the wall as he heard the familiar voice of Warden Snyder fill the courtyard, along with another man's. Sliding low to the ground, he peered out from behind the bush to see the warden and the governor himself, walking towards the carriage. Francis slipped into the extended shadow of the building, and scurried to the back of Roosevelt's carriage. He climbed onto the back as quietly as possible and pressed his body against the black backing, breathing heavily. '_Sneak me out, Gov'nor_.'

"Come visit us _any_ time, Governor Roosevelt" came Snyder's sticky-sweet tones of brown nosing.

Roosevelt laughed heartily, climbing into the carriage. It shifted from the weight, almost throwing Francis off. Frantically, he clung to the window and prayed he would keep balance until the carriage had left the Refuge.

There was the familiar sound of the snapping reins as the driver yelled at the horse "Giddap!" and the carriage violently jolted into motion.

He closed his eyes tightly, pressing himself as deeply as he could into the coach's slight back shadow, silently begging for Snyder to somehow miss seeing him. By some miraculous stroke of luck, Snyder disappeared into the refuge just as the coach exposed its full backside- Francis included- to the man. Moments later, he was out of the Refuge, and once beneath the shadow of a small bridge spanning the street, he leapt off, racing down an empty street, yelling in delirious ecstasy, "I's free! I's _free_!"

JBN Index | Chapter 2: The Almighty Spot Conlon | Library

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	2. The Almighty Spot Conlon

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Chapter 2: _The Almighty Spot Conlon_

Francis, having no particular place to go, cautiously roamed the dark streets of New York until finally, somewhere around noon the next day, he found himself wandering the streets of Brooklyn. And at that very moment, a short, but dangerous nonetheless, boy seemingly seeped from the shadows of an alleyway. Both stopped and sized the other up for a moment.

"What'cher name, kid?" he finally asked.

Francis eyed suspiciously at the boy before him. He was impatiently thumping the end of a cane on the hard-packed floor, and he wondered just what was the purpose of the item. "Who wantsta know?" he asked guardedly.

The boy narrowed his eyes. "Who d'ya think _asked_ ya?"

Francis returned the glare. "The warden" was his retort.

The boy growled at the comparison. "I asked for ya _name_."

"_You_ first."

The boy arched a brow. "Ya mean ya don't know-" He stared hard at him. "Nah, I guess not. You's too stupid. The name's Spot. Spot Conlon."

"Jack Kelly," Francis lied easily, bitterly ignoring the 'stupid' comment. No need for Spot to know the truth. He'd learned the hard way that very few people in his world were trustworthy. '_What kinda name is _Spot?' he wondered, slightly amused, after a moment. '_Sounds a lot like the name of a dog_.'

"Jack, eh?" Spot stated simply, almost as if he didn't believe him.

"Yeah. Jack," he snapped. "Ever heard the poem 'Jack be nimble, Jack be quick'?"

"Sure. What, now you's gonna jump over a candlestick, or somethin'?" he taunted. Then his voice hardened. "Whad'ya doin' here in Brooklyn, Jacky-boy?"

"Who wantsta know?"

Spot rolled his eyes. "We goin' through _this_ again?" He folded his sinewy arms over his chest. "Ya better get off my turf b'fore I soak ya, boy," he warned.

The newly declared Jack Kelly clenched his fists. "You's gonna soak _me_, eh? I'd like t' see ya lay _one_ fist on me," he sneered, his tone suggesting that _he_ would be the one dealing out the beating, should Spot start anything.

He snorted. "Oh no. Oh no, no, _no_. Ya did _not_ just threaten the Almighty Spot Conlon!"

"An' what if I did?"

Spot's knees bent and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "You's just _askin'_ to get soaked, ain'cha?"

Jack mimicked his stance and motioned for him to approach. "Think you's so tough, Spotty? Try me."

With a yell, he launched himself towards Jack, slamming his shoulder into his chest. The boy back-peddled several steps before hitting the ground hard, with fists flying. Grabbing a handful of Spot's hair, he yanked back hard, throwing him aside. Spot rolled to his feet and leapt onto Jack's back, dragging them both to the ground once again. He crammed his elbow into Jack's gut and rolled around to give him a sharp punch in the face. While he was rising to his feet, Spot shoved him down, face to the ground, again. Angry, Jack shoved his elbow back, striking him in the mouth

When they stood again- Jack, with a bloody nose, and Spot with a split lip- neither were prepared to surrender to the other. They eyed one another, and Spot circled him like an animal going in for the kill. Suddenly, loud whistles split the air.

"The bulls!" he yelled. He and Jack broke into a run. "I'll get ya later, _Jack_," he added bitterly, splitting off to the left.

"I doubt it," Jack muttered to himself, slipping into a cramped alleyway as the police ran past. When he was certain the coast was clear, he crept out of the alley, wiping the blood from his nose. Stuffing his hands into his empty pockets, he shuffled down the street, whistling to himself. '_Jack Kelly_,' he mused thoughtfully. '_Good name._ Strong_ name. I think I'll keep it. Francis Sullivan? No, no, no. I's _Jack Kelly!" He grinned to himself, pleased with his quick thinking. He prided himself on his ability to formulate believable fibs on the spot.

His stomach rumbled viciously at him, insisting that sustenance fill it immediately. Passing food vendors, his mouth watered from the delicious aromas that emanated from their carts. He wasn't going to steal anything, though. '_Not yet, anyway. Not until I's _got_ to_.' After all, he didn't want to end up back in the Refuge, or any other prison, for that matter. And so, he kept walking, mulling over the issue of his money problems- the fact that he didn't have any, being the main one. His mind was filled with options to go about earning some money.

'_A fact'ry?_' Quickly, he shook his head. Factories were too stifling, too dark, too much like the Refuge. '_An errand boy?_' Glancing down at his worn, faded clothing, now dirty and ripped from his scuffle with Stain, or Rover- whatever the boy's name was- he dismissed the idea. No one would hire an untrustworthy street rat to run errands for them, or even to pick fleas off the family mutt. Jack was so absorbed in thought that he ran into an unsuspecting newsboy before he had a chance to see him.

"Hey! Watch where ya goin'!" the boy yelled.

Absently, he tossed an apology towards the newsboy and shuffled past, mentally thumbing through a list of occupations. '_Stable hand?… No, I don't know the first thing about horses. Street performer? Yeah right, an' amaze 'em all with my lack of talent… Soldier?… Not a chance!_'

His thoughts slowly ended up wandering back to the Refuge, and he wondered about the chaos his escape must have created. Snyder had, without a doubt, sent out a vigorous search party for the escapee. The warden hated Jack just as much the boy hated him. He sympathized momentarily with the other boys the punishment they must have endured for not giving up information they didn't even have the privilege of knowing. The system was cruel that way.

'_But that's all behind me now. I's gonna start over. New life, new identity…_' Then he recalled Danny's comment, about resembling a cowboy. Deciding that he rather liked the nickname, he made it his priority, second only to finding food, to gear his "new identity" to the name.

* * *

Jack no longer felt the pangs of hunger. He was past that stage, running on sparse sleep and the occasional snatched bit of water. He was also beginning to wonder if escaping from the Refuge had been such a good idea. He prided himself to being a survivor, but how long it would last, he didn't know. Without paying attention, he wandered into the docks, and, without knowing it, wandered into trouble. He had been doing that a lot the past few days.

He was pulled out of his daze when something small and hard pinged off the back of his neck. "What the…" he muttered, slapping his hand to his neck. He looked back, and saw no one. Suddenly, he was peppered with small stones from the opposite side. Whirling around, he saw a group of six or seven- some his age, some younger, one that possibly was older- loading slingshots and preparing to fire once again. And in the middle of them all was the Almighty Leader himself.

"Ah, if it ain't me good friend, Jacky-boy," he commented snidely.

"Oh, how ya doin', Rover?" Jack replied just as viciously.

The boys surrounding him shook their heads, all groaning and voicing comments such as "Ya gonna pay for that one" and "Whatcha gonna do, Spot?"

Spot narrowed his eyes. "I told ya I'd get ya later. Just me luck ya stumbled into our docks." He jumped down from the crate he was perched upon, and sauntered over to the intruder, pushing him roughly on the shoulder. "An' lucky you, I gots me boys t' back me up."

"Can't fight me on ya own, Speck? Gotta get ya flunkies t' fight me?"

He yawned, shoving Jack again. "Naw. I ain't got th' need to mess up me clothes fightin' wit' ya again. But theys ain't had a good fight in awhile, Jacky-boy." He gestured to the posse behind him. Taking a step back, he announced, rather indifferently, "Soak 'im."

"Whatta you's, a girl?" he yelled taking a mighty swing at one of the advancing boys.

"I ain't no girl!" the leader of the pack shouted in return.

"You's a girl!" Jack rammed his foot into the gut of the same boy he punched, and was dragged down by two others, as they pummeled him with their fists. He struggled to get free, screaming, "Fight me fair, Spot! I's gonna soak ya so bad ya won't be able t' walk for the rest a ya life!" He spat a mouthful of blood onto one of the boys, wrenching his arms free and grabbing one's head, slamming it onto his knee. A big guy slammed into him from behind, shoving his face into the gravel. Agony ripped through every bone in his body, but he valiantly fought to regain control of himself before something embarrassing happened. He slammed his elbow into the boy's face, similar to the way he had on Spot, and scrambled out from underneath him. Turning to the other boys, he yelled, "Come an' get me, cowards!"

"No!" Spot held up his cane to stop his boys. He threw Jack a feral glare. "Ain't nobody soaks me boys like that… This un's mine." He dove for Jack, cramming his fist into his gut and driving it upwards, forcing all the air out of his body. Jack collapsed, wheezing. "Who's th' girl now, eh, Jacky-boy? Get up!" He kicked him in the side.

Jack groaned. Just when it seemed that he wouldn't rise again, he staggered to his feet.

"C'mon… Gimme… gimme ya best shot," he gasped, wiping the blood from his nose.

Spot stared at him, with a rather amused expression on his face. Suddenly, he wasn't in the mood to fight Jack. "Ya jus' don't know when t' give up, do ya?"

"I don't give up," he growled. "Now let's finish this."

"Listen kid, you's bein' outright stupid. I don't really wanna kill ya. So don't get me angrier. 'Sides… I kinda admire the way ya handled ya'self against me boys. Even though I wanna soak th' hell outta ya."

"Why don'cha try it?"

Spot rolled his eyes. "Like I's sayin', you's bein' stupid. Now, c'mon, me and you, let's have a talk." He motioned for Jack to follow him.

Jack eyed him warily. "How'll I know I can trust ya?"

He glanced back and smirked. "On my word… as a newsie." He spat on his hand and held it out. "Ain't my word good enough?" he asked, as the other stared at the limb suspiciously.

Mumbling curses under his breath, Jack spat in his own hand and clasped the Brooklyn newsie's hand in the unfamiliar handshake. "C'mon, why don'cha follow me."

Jack grunted in annoyance that the request sounded more like an order that he was just expected to follow, but, tired of fighting, tired of starving, tired of sleeping in boxes in the alleys, he followed Spot.

"Now, lemme guess. You's in need of a job, eh?"

"What makes ya think _that_?"

Spot arched an eyebrow. "There ain't nothin' I don't know, _Jack_."

Jack shuddered at the way the boy said his name, as if he really did know all. '_Guess I shouldn't doubt 'im… It'll get me in a lotta trouble, I's sure…_' He nodded and replied casually, squinting at the sky, "A job'd be nice."

The Brooklyn leader smacked the butt of his came onto the ground, insisting his follower pay attention to what he had to say. "Then I's got jus' th' job for ya."

"An' what's that?"

"You, Jacky-boy, are gonna be a newsie."

JBN Index | Chapter 3: This is the Way We Sell Our Papes | Library

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